


More Fools than Wise

by Dassandre



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 23:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14681970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dassandre/pseuds/Dassandre
Summary: “It’s not a matter of ‘want,” James.  Or ‘can’t’  Moneypenny,” Q said, acknowledging each of their arguments in turn.  “I don’t sing.  Makes me a bit of a dull guest at karaoke, don’t you think?”





	More Fools than Wise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AsheTarasovich (natalieashe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalieashe/gifts), [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts), [springbok7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/springbok7/gifts).



> Please note that I chose not to use archive warnings. Let me say that again, I CHOSE NOT TO USE ARCHIVE WARNINGS!!!!!!!! Choosing to read in light of the warning and limited tags and then blaming the author if you are triggered in spite of the warning is bad form. :)
> 
>  
> 
> While I keep gifting to the same three people, understand that it's because they inspire me in real life as well as within fandom, and I think they deserve to know that. This time around, I wrote something I swore to them I never would or could. 
> 
> So here it is.
> 
>  
> 
> No betas or brit-pickers were used or harmed in the writing of this story.

 

“The Quartermaster’s up next!”

Moneypenny, along with the rest of the assembled Sixers, started at the announcement and looked around the pub.  Sure enough, there in the corner at the back side of the bar sat Q, hands warming around a cuppa, shaking as they so often did these days.   If possible, he looked even worse than when she’d left him three hours ago -- at his insistence -- tucked into bed at home.

Alone.

Eve stood and stalked to the bar, the angry retort of her Jimmy Choo’s echoing through the suddenly silent pub.  “You should be resting. The fuck are you doing here?” she demanded in a harsh whisper when she reached his side.

“You’ve been trying to get me to come to one of these for years, Moneypants,” Q said.  His grin, while not forced, was as muted and lusterless as he himself had grown this last month.  “Now that I’m here, you’re trying to send me home? How very disappointing.”

“Q …”

“Help me, would you.”  He slid from the barstool, and Eve grasped his arm before he could collapse to the floor.  It was as if gravity itself refused to support his frame anymore. Once Q’s feet were steady under him -- she had no idea how he got to the pub without his cane -- he squeezed her hand appreciatively and linked his arm with hers.  “Take me the rest of the way?”

What Eve wanted to do was haul him outside, hail a cab, and take him straight back to his bed, but Q looked at her with such trust, such hope, that she found herself escorting him to the front of the pub instead.

“Thank you, luv,” Q said with a smile and a tired sigh that seemed pulled from his very soul before taking the microphone that waited for him.  

“Time to sing.”  

 

~~00Q~~

 

_“He imprinted on the boy.”_

_“Well, it’s to be expected, I suppose.  Given the circumstances.”_

_“It’s lucky he was in Hyde to begin with.  New to London, apparently. Lost his parents and has been taken in by his aunt.  Stopped the bloody thief before too much damage could be done. The consequences would have been disastrous, otherwise.”_

_“What does Master Allyn think the result will be?  This imprint?”_

_“He wouldn’t hazard a guess, Ma’am.  As you know it’s not uncommon for attachments to develop  -- your own beloved uncle, for example -- but an imprint? According to records, we’ve not seen the like since just prior to Queen Anne’s reign.  And_ that _did not turn out well.”_

_“Young Prince William?”_

_“The very same.”_

_“I see.  When will he be formally presented to the family?”_

_“Six weeks hence, Ma’am.”_

_“Very well.  I’ll want weekly reports.”_

_“Of course, Ma’am.”_

_“What is he called, Mr. Latham?”_

_“Cygwin, Ma’am.”_

 

~~00Q~~

 

“No, but, as ever, I do thank you for the invitation, Moneypenny.  Now that he’s back from assignment, I believe Bond and I have other plans tonight.”  Q turned his attention back to the stack of requisition forms in front of him and huffed in irritation that the bureaucratic machine of Her Majesty’s Secret Service still demanded physical signatures rather than digital ones.  Tedious.

“We do?”  James looked up from the book he was reading on the sofa in Q’s office.  He glanced from his lover to Moneypenny and back again as if this declaration was news to him, which it was.

Moneypenny immediately sensed an ally in Bond  “Yes! I mean, _no_ !  You do _not_ have plans.”  She snapped at Q.  “James, I’ve been inviting him for two years, and he always refuses.”  Nudging a stack of folders with her hip, Eve sat on the edge of Q’s desk and glared down at the boffin.  “He comes to every other gathering when he’s not buried in work. I don’t know what he has against karaoke.  Wait. You can’t sing, can you? Is _that_ it?”

“Q, it’s fine if you don’t want to sing; we can just go and --”

“It’s not a matter of ‘want,” James.  Or ‘can’t,’ Moneypenny,” Q said, acknowledging each of their arguments in turn.  He scrawled his signature on the final document and tugged at the necessary file folder trapped beneath Eve’ bum.  She angled her hip and he pulled it out, placing the form inside as he stood. “I _don’t_ sing.  Makes me a bit dull at such an event, don’t you think?”  He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and checked the time on his mobile before pocketing it in his purple checked trousers.  “Speaking of dull, I’ve a three-hour meeting next door with Johnson, Mallory, Neeman from GCHQ. I’ll see you tonight, Bond.”

Q grabbed his topcoat -- a lovely, bespoke thing insulated with humanely gathered down James bought him for his birthday -- from the hook behind the door and swept from his office with a wave of his hand.

“Laterz!”

 

~~00Q~~

 

_“You realise, of course, how unorthodox this is.”_

_“I do, Ma’am.”_

_“And there’s nothing I can say or do to dissuade you?”_

_“If there is, I can’t imagine what it would be.  I love him, Auntie. Always have done.”_

_“Yes.  I know.  The_ imprint _.”_

_“I like to think there’s more to it than that.”_

_“You’re one of those romantics, aren’t you?  God save Us. If you say one word about ‘soul-mates’ or ‘destiny’,  I’ll have you down in the kitchens before luncheon.”_

_“You’ve used that threat more times than I can count.  Chef loves me.”_

_“Enough with the bloody cheek, young man.”_

_“Never ...  You know him, though?”_

_“I do.  He’s a good man, but Cy-”_

_“Quinn, please, Auntie.”_

_“As you say.  He’ll break your heart, Quinn.  He won’t intend it, but he will.”_

_“It’ll break without him, too.  You know that as well as I. I’m under no delusions if that’s what is worrying you.  He’s far from perfect, but he_ is _a good man given the terror of his life.  The things he has to do to keep us all safe.  Loyal. Dedicated. I’ve been watching. He spends a fair amount of time in the park these days, you know.  Likes the Serpentine. Brings croissants from_ Le Pain Quotidien _.  They’re delicious._

_“Put that smile away, if you please.  It’s deadlier than those handguns I hear you design.  But back to the issue at hand-”_

_“Auntie … there really is nothing for it, so I might as well try for my happiness.”_

_“Five and a half centuries!  Bloody curse! I don’t want to lose any more of my family, Quinn.”_

_“Uneasy is the family line that wears the crown ...  None of us can know for certain what will happen. I think he may surprise you.  And he deserves to be happy, too. I think I can help him find that.”_

_“By working with him?”_

_“To start.  That’s why I’m here.  I understand a position commensurate with my skills has become available.”_

_“Sadly, yes.  Dreadful business.  Very well. I’ll have my secretary arrange a meeting with M.  She’ll have the final say, of course, but Olivia knows quality and competence when she sees it.”_

_“Thank you, Ma’am.”_

_“You’re welcome …_ Quartermaster _.”_

 

~~00Q~~

Q was grating parmesan cheese over the top of the pasta bake he’d picked up from Georgio’s after his meeting when James snagged him from behind and spun him into his arms.  

The strains of Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” sounded in the air, and James danced Q into the sitting room, dipping and spinning his partner expertly in a jitterbug that would have made war-time RAF pilots and their gals proud.  

“I gotta be cool, relax, get hip … get on my tracks,” James sang as he spun Q around the flat.  Camille and Claude bolted for safety: their feline protests a loud counterpoint to the music. “Crazy little thing called love …”

It was silly.  It was childish.  It was romantic.

It felt like flying.

Q giggled madly into James’ shoulder when the song ended but sobered when his chin was tilted up with an index finger, and their eyes met.  

“Spent some time thinking this afternoon.  About you,” James said. He sat on the edge of the dinner table, keeping Q in the circle of his arms.  “And I realised I’ve never even heard you hum a song. You really _don’t_ sing, do you?”

“No.  Not once.”  Q shifted uncomfortably in James’ embrace, uncertain where Bond was going with this line of thinking and more than a little worried it might destroy --

“Not going to ask why or how it’s even possible.  It’s quirky, I’ll grant you that, but God knows I’ve more than my fair share of oddities you’ve never once questioned.  What I’m saying is … it doesn’t matter. Not to me. Whether you can, can’t, want, don’t want, do, or don’t. About _anything_ , Quinn.  Not only singing.  I just want you. As you are.”

“That’s … well ... surprising, actually,” Q admitted.  He chewed on his bottom lip, something he was never cognizant of doing until James had started pressing kisses to the abused flesh as he did now.  “Why?” he asked once the kiss ended.

“Because I love you.”

The pasta bake was forgotten after that, and sometime later, when they lay panting in one another’s arms, Q whispered a promise against the damp flesh of Bond’s shoulder, “I’ll sing one day, James.”

Bond smiled against Q’s hair and pulled him closer, but was so sated he failed to note the curious melancholy that tinged the second part of Q’s vow.

“I won’t be able to stop myself.”  

 

~~00Q~~

 

Six weeks later, Nine Eyes was offline, Blofeld was in custody, and Madeleine Swann was … well, yes.  

“I thought you’d gone,” Q remembered saying.

James’ response, he would never forget.  

“I have.  There’s just one thing I need.”

 

~~00Q~~

_“Give Us one reason why We shouldn’t have you clapped in irons.”_

_“The Tower hasn’t been used as a prison since just after the War, Ma’am.”_

_“Do not jest with Us, young man!  We don’t care who you are or how you’ve served this country in the past, your actions these last weeks call your integrity and loyalty to the crown into serious question.”_

_“I have only_ ever _been loyal to this country and to the crown, Ma’am, and I resent the implication --”_

 _“We resent you dallying with that cloying, colourless, unstable,_ treacherous _twit whilst your chosen mate clings to life here at home.”_

_“What do you mean?  What has happened to Q?”_

_“Answer Our charge, Commander!  Do you deny carrying on with that woman?”_

_“I deny everything save the objective of my mission which was to escort Dr. Swann to a protected location and remain with her until representatives from the Foreign Office could create a deep-cover protection scheme to keep her safe and free from the influence of SPECTRE.   Simply because Ernst Blofeld is in custody does not mean he can’t manipulate the tentacles of that organisation. M determined that it would work best under the pretense of a romantic relationship, and to ensure the utmost secrecy, only he, I, the two representatives from FCO, and now you, Ma’am, would be privy to the details.  Answer_ my _question, Ma’am.  What. Is. Wrong. With. Q?!”_

_“God save us ... Commander, what do you know about mute swans?  Fact and myth.”_

_“What does this have to do with Quinn?”_

_“_ Everything _.”_

 _“Mute swans … they’re under your -- the crown’s --protection, mate for life, even some same-sex pairings, mute is a misnomer, but they- Oh, Christ!  They_ sing _when they die.”_

_“Come with me, James.  There’s much to explain, and there may be little time.”_

 

~~00Q~~

 

Moneypenny sat at the table closest to the makeshift stage.  She didn’t know what she would see next, but she knew what she saw now.  

In the twenty-seven days since James Bond disappeared in the DB10 with Dr. Swann at his side, Q had grown pale and emaciated with a speed that the doctors in Medical, let alone specialists in Harley Street, could not explain.  Q had let them run their tests -- humouring them, more than anything, Eve thought -- but had continued to work until he could no longer stand or sit upright without support.

Q left the Branch in R’s care, given his best to Tanner -- Mallory was out of the country, in meetings with his global counterparts to ensure the complete dismantling of Nine Eyes  -- and retired to the flat he had shared with Bond. He eschewed the medications and the tonics, sticking to his Earl Gray, the rare croissant, and what small meals Moneypenny could get him to eat.   

Eve took up residence in the guest bedroom, quite against Q’s wishes, and cared for him as best she could.  As best as he would allow.

His cheeks were thin to hollowness, and his skin had grown fragile and delicate in a way that was typically seen only with the elderly.   He cinched the drawstring of his track bottoms as tightly as possible, but they still hung loosely about his hips, and the button downs -- James’ of course -- swamped his frame.  Even Q’s remarkable hair lost its luster: the feathery, wayward curls no longer bounced but lay still and flat, clinging to the curves of his skull. And though he hid them in the bottom of the ensuite’s bin, Moneypenny saw the clumps that had fallen out.   

She suppressed her rising fear and grief, locked them away in that place field agents never looked too closely at and managed to keep herself together to care for and support her best friend.  

She stayed strong.  They carried on.

His eyes burned greener than ever behind his spectacles, and that gave Eve some cause for hope.

Then Q asked her if she wouldn’t please find a new home for the cats.

The 9th Circle of Dante’s Hell was too humane a place for the likes of James Bond.

Even as the rest of him faded, the strength of Q’s voice endured: its gentle tenor just as melodious when he spoke.  When they argued.

But he did _not_ sing.

Until he did.  

Until he _was_.  

Singing.

The tears that Eve had kept at bay for weeks flowed freely, unapologetically at the beauty of the voice that sounded through the pub.  She would never remember the words of Q’s song, but the feelings they evoked in her Eve would never forget: comfort, despair, humour, heartache, joy, bitterness, mirth, betrayal, and beneath them all, like bedrock, hope.

His voice dipped and soared like the seas of green grass along the Cotswold Way, but even as his song strengthened, Eve watched his body begin to fail.  His hands shook more violently than ever. He dropped the microphone but continued to sing, laboring for each breath to fuel his song.

Q was dying.     

It was inevitable.  She knew that now.  

But Eve could not move nor help; she was pinioned by the dreadful sight in front of her.

Terrifying in its beauty and cruelty.

There was a commotion behind her: chairs and tables scraped against ancient hardwood,  glasses shattered, voices raised up in anger and fear and anguish.

Q’s legs buckled.

He fell.

Two strong arms were there to catch him, wrapping around Q protectively, tenderly, easing him to the ground.

Hurried words of explanation were followed by those of apology and self-condemnation.  

Prayers for intercession.  Entreaty.

And finally,

“Please, Cygwin.  Stay.”

Q’s reply came as a single, clear note of forgiveness, love, and farewell so pure in its simplicity that Eve closed her eyes, letting the heartbreak of it wash over her. 

When she opened them again, Q was gone.

In his place, its long neck draped over James’ trembling arms, lay a dead swan.  Its beak slack from the last note of its only song.

 

* * *

 

“The silver Swan, who living had no Note,

when Death approached, unlocked his silent throat.

Leaning his breast against the reedy shore,

thus sang his first and last, and sang no more:

"Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes!

"More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise."

 

~ Orlando Gibbons

 

**Wings of Love** by Stephen Pearson

**Author's Note:**

> So this was either pure codswallop and mushy rubbish or it hurt. Please let me know what you think.


End file.
